M&M Revisited

I usually do my dinner-day market hopping, hunting and gathering alone. This particular Wednesday, Master was accompanying, and he even indulged me in a excursion to Milford's M&M Farms. I'd visited this sprawling produce emporium only once before, during a venture so memorable that I have begged and pleaded with every auto-owning associate for a return visit ever since. The early evening hours at M&M didn't present quite the same bedlam milieu of jostling carts and the commotive Babel of foreign clamor that I so fondly recalled, but the store was lively enough. And, while perhaps not peak season for produce, the array of offerings was impressive, with heaped bins stretching as far in every direction as one's eyes could hope to take in. If not quite as wanton as the open-air market tableaux I've envied in friends' photos, magazine spreads and foodie-baiting travel shows, they scratched the same itch. It was all mere (and momentary) distraction, however, from the narrow, crowded aisles of the Asian specialty market that lay just beyond the panorama of produce. Equally allured and repelled by a whiff of asafoetida - perceptible within moments of entering the store - I surrendered almost involuntarily to its stinky siren-like call and found myself not among the array of apples and asparagus, but entranced and drooling before the dried spices. It's a testament to the thoroughness of my pantry that I did not actually need anything here, other than a bag of whole coriander seed with which to fill the satellite jars I'd set up in Master's cupboards. And as I drifted dreamily between shelves, from spices to sauces to sweets, the mile-long wishlist I maintain mentally proved useless. All I could recall was bonito flakes, ponzu sauce and jaggery (unrefined sugar - cane, in this case. Palm remains elusive), each of which I was able to locate and snap up without much effort.

But I was here to shop for dinner. And, when I alit and rejoined Master, bagging pears and somewhat (rightly) annoyed by my tendency to wander off, I turned my attention back to provisions. Master threw me quite a curve ball by getting excited about the red beets. It's rare to see him so enthusiastic about a greengrocery item. I knew that I wanted to make polenta, maybe with a saute of mixed mushrooms. The plan could easily be adjusted to accommodate roasted beets. I picked up a few large and lovely parsnips, which would end up unused, and a quantity of small red onions. The plum tomatoes looked (and, more importantly, smelled) promising enough to be worth a chance. But the mushroom selection was limited to cellophane-wrapped packages of the standard white-and-brown button variety. How uninspiring. Moreover, there was no fresh basil, and the eggplants just weren't speaking to me. At this point, I yearned to return to the alien comforts of the jarred pickles, impenetrably labeled cans, and foil-bagged jellyfish in the specialty shop. An apple-crumb muffin from the in-store bakery restored my waning faith, being as decadently rich and buttery as I remembered. While Master checked out, I ducked into the adjacent deli for a container of grated Parmigiano-Reggiano. A quick Stop & Shop run on the drive home provided basil.

When I mentioned my polenta intentions, Master insisted that I had made it for him before. I insisted that I had not. No matter how long the stirring spoon, or how high the sides of the pot, preparing polenta always proves a painful, memorable experience. The seething cornmeal slurry hisses and spits angrily, inevitably resulting in a slew of minor scaldings. Sure enough, the quick-cooking polenta - they're not kidding! - spattered as I stirred it, leaving my fingers battle-scarred. As the porridge came together, with finely-cut basil and a lusty amount of Parmesan and ground pepper, I tasted it. Yum! I proffered a sample for Master to sample. He winced, his brow creased. He did not love the texture. "It's like something that shouldn't even be food." At least he admitted that, no, I had not made polenta for him before. I gloated silently and assured him that, once it had set and was lightly fried, he'd find it much more agreeable. He looked skeptical.

Peeling roasted beets always makes the kitchen counter seem like the set of a splatter film. But they are worth the effort, and an hour at 425°F really brought out their nutty, sweet charms. The tomatoes, roasted in tandem, slipped out of their jackets as easily as exotic dancers, and they were soft enough to mash with a fork. I added both to the saute of onions and mushrooms, the beets instantly staining everything the brilliant burgundy you see above. With a little white wine and a final sprinkle of sea salt, it was ready to be set aside to free up the pan for frying the polenta. Fully set, it came out cleanly, firm and slightly slick from the oiled dish. So a brief dry fry - just enough to crisp and color the outside while leaving the inside contrastingly creamy - was all that was necessary before presentation.

To my great relief, Master enjoyed the finished polenta, pronouncing it not just food-like, but downright tasty, and felt that the beet-and-mushroom accompaniment was a great complement in both flavor and visual effect. In all, this was a fun meal, burns and all.

He did refer to the leftovers as "cornbread." He's lucky I love him so.

Rainy with a Certainty of Meatballs

For a while now, I've been meaning to attempt albóndigas, based on a hazy memory of a lone delicious encounter with same at a tapas restaurant. But something or another has always intervened, and the high-quality ground beef I keep purchasing with the intent of making meatballs has been put to any purpose but. With a cold Friday drizzle seeping into my head, ushering in what would be a sopping wet and intermittently raw weekend, my thoughts turned first to soup, then back to those unrealized albóndigas. This time nothing would keep me from my mission.

Memory can be such a funny thing. I distinctly recall rice and cumin in the albóndigas I'd sampled, but not much identifiable beyond that. I couldn't even have told you what meat had been used. So I did some research, comparing different recipes, and came to the conclusion that no one agrees on what constitutes a Spanish meatball, or even on what should go into the traditional soup. I took this as a license to improvise. Beef alone didn't seem quite right. Chorizo would have been my first choice, but Master's aversion to anything spicy preempted it as an option. A length of locally made Italian pork sausage, flecked with red pepper flakes but not overwhelmingly assertive, felt like the right addition to the meatball mixture.

As a small quantity of white rice steamed and cumin seeds toasted, I surveyed the pantry. Garlic, of course; maybe three small cloves, grated raw. Mexican oregano. Breadcrumbs? Flour? No... coarse cornmeal. I raided the refrigerator for an egg and cilantro, eyes darting from shelf to shelf as the minimalist and maximalist in me waged war. We would compromise, keeping the albóndigas very basic (and hopefully "traditional") while being more ecumenical, if warranted, with regards to the soup. It's always nice when you can get yourself to agree on something.

E. coli scares and frequent recalls made me wary about undercooking red meat, and I can't say I trusted the heat of the soup to cook my meatballs through. I reasoned that they should be prepared separately. At the risk of smoking us out into the rainy night - Master's smoke detector is as sensitive as his stomach, and it's wired directly to the fire station - I chose to brown, then braise, the albóndigas in an open, unoiled skillet. Master reacted as expected, leaping momentarily from his ABC Nightly News-hour repose to strike up the air purifier. Oh, come now. It wasn't that smoky. But I held my tongue and, once the albóndigas had taken on color on several sides (insofar as round things have sides), added a little stock and covered the pan. I tried a tiny one, after it had cooled, and the recognition came immediately, in a rush of memories of not only the albóndigas, but of all the other tapas tasted during that meal. Success!

That left the soup. I realized my carrots, celery and onions weren't cooking because I'd turned on the wrong burner. D'oh! They caught up quickly, with the addition of stock, water, a can of crushed tomatoes, half a jar of (very) mild salsa, a touch of smoked paprika and the scrumptious drippings from the skillet - I knew there was a good reason for finishing those meatballs first - deglazed with oloroso sherry. In went the albóndigas, for one last unifying simmer while the table was being set, a few fistfuls of fresh cilantro, a bit of basil. And it was time to ring the dinner bell. Always more welcome than the fire alarm.

The Beurre Necessities

Feeling a bit decadent last night, and the fresh lemon sole at the local market looked too good to pass up. It also seemed to be begging to be bathed in butter. Who was I not to oblige?

Now, I have nothing against the generic unsalted sweet-cream butter that is always at hand and usually suits my humble purposes. But this called for something special. Perhaps a whole brick of high-butterfat-y Plugra? Told you I was feeling decadent.

The inspiration was Eileen Joyce's Sole with Herb Butter (c/o Bon Appetit). It's no exaggeration to say that I could have eaten the bowl of butter, whipped to ambrosial, airy creaminess and compounded with chives, thyme, dill and lemon juice, with a tablespoon. But I behaved myself. I knew I wanted to broil the fish. At the last minute, I decided that it should be breaded as well, if only to provide a contrasting crunch and another layer of flavor. A few minutes of broiling, a good dollop of the herbed butter atop each fillet, another minute or so under the element, and the sole was good to go.

Since I'm still just a budding dinner-table hedonist, I rationalized that such a decadent main course called for more sensible sides. A brown rice and orzo pilaf - out of the Middle East box, I confess, but with shallots and an improv(is)ed "spice pack" of cumin, coriander, smoked paprika and lemon zest - fit the bill. And a ratatouille, made with Delicata squash, zucchini, baby eggplant, celery and red and yellow peppers, rounded out the plate. The pilaf was still a touch soupy and underdone when everything came to the table, so back on the burner it went. That seemed to do the trick. And the ratatouille really deserves more attention, perhaps even an equal allotment of my usual adjective-laden verbal arabesques. But I'll abstain, and allow the fish - and the butter - to bask in the limelight.

I think the photo speaks for itself. Everything really was as delicious as it looks. Master had a look of utter contentment as he put away the last bite of his second full portion. And that speaks for itself, too.

Soup's On!

Yes, that really is the best caption I can come up with at the moment. All the inspiration went into Friday night's mammoth-sized pot of minestrone, along with most of the contents of my and Master's refrigerators and pantries.

Is there any better way to fortify one's self and intimates against a snow-lashed late February night? In keeping with the Campbell's creed that soup is a) good food and b) should eat like a meal, I made sure that mine was overstuffed with tasty things. To think that it all started with the pancetta, pan-rendered to crackling, golden-brown bits, and oozing unctuous, seasoned fat which made quick work of a knoll of onions and garlic. After that, I confess that it all got delightfully out of hand. Kale, fennel, carrots, potato, petite peas, Parmigiano-Reggiano rind, cannellini beans, roly-poly ditalini, tomatoes, celery leaves, chicken stock, marjoram, parsley, oregano, sea salt, an armload of fresh basil. In the ensuing abandon, a zucchini marked for the soup pot actually managed to escape unscathed, concealed amid the clutter of cutting boards, cans and plastic bowls. He lives to face another saute.

As a bonus, there was plenty of minestrone left to share with friends on Sunday. And what's the point of making a big pot of soup if not to share with all comers?

There is no hard photographic evidence of its fleeting existence, but I should spare a few words for the third attempted apple crisp. Or is it the fourth? Master does love his apple crisp. To prove it, and not being one to do things by half, he mail-ordered an entire case of Sylvia's soul-kitchen certified Apple Crisp Mix. Which I now feel obligated to deplete. Last time around, we had both failed to notice that the directions call for a can of apple pie filling. With the relatively brief baking time of 25 minutes, the results of using fresh apples instead were ... underwhelming. I frown upon overly sweet and preservative-laden canned fruit. So this crisp started as a one-pound bag of Granny Smiths, cooked down (during a particularly impetuous Saturday morning moment) to a compote, with sugar, cinnamon, orange peel and juice. Tasty and substantial enough to be served as applesauce, it was even better with Sylvie's butter-bolstered topping. I still miss those rolled oats, though.